


my sweet, dying valentine

by flowmorphia



Category: BUCK-TICK
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, and dramatic af, hisasushi? sakuraimai? idk, i dont usually write about fantasy stuff but im currently obsessed with this trope so here we are, i wrote this at work r.i.p., kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27092074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowmorphia/pseuds/flowmorphia
Summary: He’s not sad, he realizes; he finds it quite poetic, in fact, choosing to die from love rather than never being able to love someone again. And he isn’t afraid anymore, because Imai is wiping his tears with a hand now and everything suddenly falls into place.
Relationships: Imai Hisashi/Sakurai Atsushi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	my sweet, dying valentine

**Author's Note:**

> im on antidepressants

Some people get butterflies in their stomachs, Atsushi’s got flowers in his chest.

He’s on his knees when the plants start rising from his lungs, burning him from the inside out, gracefully painful. He coughs desperately for air and squeezes his eyes shut when blood gathers under his tongue, drops of crimson slowly colouring the carpet.

It wasn’t that bad at the beginning, he thought it was just a sore, itchy throat, probably from overworking his voice, nothing to be concerned about. But Imai was worried. Imai rubbed his throat gently and made him hot drinks. Imai cared about him, which made everything worse. Sakurai presumed, later, that he was only worried about the vocalist’s performance onstage — he tried not to think about it.

But then the flowers appeared, gradually blossoming inside of him. First, they were only tiny, innocent petals, then he started coughing up entire bulbs. That's when he knew his time was shortening. 

“There you are, Acchan,” he heard his low voice entering the room, and even though Sakurai knew he was close, he sounded immerse and far away, “been looking for you everywhere.”

Sakurai opened his mouth to answer, but his throat betrayed him, burning like an inferno as he desperately tried to soothe the pain by wrapping a hand around it, dry lips trembling as he uselessly tried to speak. 

Not now, not in front of _him_.

Imai looks down at him with pity in his eyes, and it hurts. It fucking hurts. 

He pathetically tries to cover his mouth, choking on the thick petals in the back of his throat, but he couldn’t help the blossomed begonias spilling from his lips, pink like Imai’s dyed, messy hair.

When the retching sounds cease, Imai is kneeling in front of him, almost too close – reminding Sakurai of how painfully beautiful he is –, holds the blood stained flower and looks at it with a puzzled feature, slowly returns his gaze to Sakurai as knowledge dawns on him.

The singer ignores the nagging tightness in his chest because paying attention to Imai is more important – he briefly wonders if he should’ve taken the plant off and spare himself all of this pain, but concludes that not loving Imai is more painful. The very thought of feeling indifference towards the guitarist makes him sick. But then again, loving Imai is, too, making him sick.

He hadn’t planned to let Imai know about the flowers – it was embarrassing enough for him to fall for his best friend, especially when he was a male –, he _knew_ this meaningless obsessive attachment he felt for the man would eventually fade away, but when the guitarist took him in his arms to put him back in bed, Sakurai’s plan of falling out of love went down the drain. He smiled at him, nevertheless, whispering a “thank you”.

Imai wasn’t disgusted by him, he states. Or at least looked like he wasn’t; Sakurai used to hate the man’s ability to hide what he was actually feeling and that’s definitely one of those times. He wouldn’t blame the guitarist if he were repulsed, to be completely honest, it’s not as if it’s normal to have a man falling in love with you.

“For how long?” Imai asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The guitarist has an apologetic look in his shiny, teary eyes. Sakurai knows then that it isn’t his fault; people can’t choose who they fall for, and if they could, Sakurai definitely wouldn’t fall for someone who neglects him. It’s unfair for both of them.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” Sakurai sighed as he closed his eyes and let his head fall onto the pillows, allowing Imai to dry the sweat from his feverish, dying body, “you’re not responsible for any of this.”

He’s not sad, he realizes; he finds it quite poetic, in fact, choosing to die from love rather than never being able to love someone again. And he isn’t afraid anymore, because Imai is wiping his tears with a hand now and everything suddenly falls into place. He shakes his head in response to the question and relishes the feeling of Imai’s hand cupping his face, rubbing soothing circles on his cheek. 

A shaky breath leaves his lips when the thick flowers start obstructing his throat again, forcing their way out of his burning lungs. He coughs. Over and over again. He doesn’t know how much time passes by, but Imai doesn’t leave his side, drying his sweaty forehead with a towel.

“Sit up, it’s harder to breathe if you lay down,” he reasoned, pulling him close by his arms.

Sakurai doesn’t know how they ended up in a tight embrace, but he’s not going to be the one to complain. They are holding each other in the dark and he’s smiling for a moment. The vocalist’s wheezing breath echoes through the room and he rests his face on his shoulder in defeat, manages a deep breath. A single blood-stained petal falls from his lips as the flowers flutter in his lungs, longing for the sunlight.

Imai’s body is warm and comfortable, it makes him feel at home. He stopped fighting the suffocating pain by now, idly fitting into his lover’s embrace. _Numb_.

It’s only when Hisashi caresses Sakurai’s hair that he realizes this was not a mistake, at least not for him. He would pass through all of this again if he had to, he would suffer for him again, he would love Imai Hisashi with every single beat of his heart just to collapse in his arms again.

“Hisa,” he whispers weakly, not quite sure of what he wishes to tell him, maybe he just wanted to say his name one last time. He can’t finish the sentence, however, for his lungs are stuffed and the air is thin. 

Imai says nothing, but it’s not so bad; Sakurai is glad they are together when everything fades.


End file.
